Fantasy Dances
by Eurothrashed
Summary: Everything always happens so slow. SPAWN COMPLETE
1. CHAPTER 1

Title: Fantasy Dances

Author: MAC/Undead Euro-Trash

Feedback: Yes, please. E-mail in bio.

Disclaimer: so not mine

Rating: dunno, haven't figured this out yet...

Summary: Everything always happens so slow...

Spoilers: Buffyverse, whatever. Angelverse up to 'Damaged'

A/N Just an idea... this is not an AU, well, not really.  
  


* * *

CHAPTER 1  
  
"You alright?" 

She just nods. Her fingers are cold and they ache in the joints. She clutches the chilled metal tighter, making sure not to drop it. That's one of the things she can focus on, 'cause she remembers that it was very important not to drop it.

"Do you want to see him?"

She hates this man. It isn't because he's bad like everyone else; no, it's because of the way he sounds like he cares when she knows he really doesn't. That's something she's used to too, people put on sympathetic stares, but they don't really think about her two seconds after they leave the room. She hates how this man's voice sounds like molasses and brown sugar. He sounds like cookies her mom used to bake, doesn't smell like it though. She hates every easy move he makes, every free-thinking, caring gesture, and every friendly touch; but mostly, she hates how nice he pretends to be.

"It's an awful lot of work just for a vampire," he points out. He's driving them someplace, his old truck grunting and groaning as he changes gears. She pays him, so he's always driving her someplace. They had been busier lately, more driving, more talks, more caring glances that were as fake as she used to think his smooth cookie accent was.

She shrugs, her fingers tightening, "Lot of work for anybody."

"True," he smiles easily, settling back into the driver's seat. His fingers, hard worked and callused, begin to tap out a leisurely rhythm on the wheel; and she forces herself not to flinch as his head starts to bob with the music she can't hear.

After a moment or two, he stills and asks, "He worth it?"

"He's my friend," she softly tells him, looking down at the glinting silver trapped between her fingers. The shine used to be more so, but it's grown dull from her fingers tracing along its chilled surface. There had been too many nights spent holding it, fingering it, crying as she clutched it to her chest... just too many nights.

"And somehow I think it's a lot more complicated that that." His honeyed voice is suffocating, and she's finding it hard to breathe as his words slowly fill the truck's cabin.

"I pay you to drive," she reminds him. Her voice is barely there, and that's how she feels anymore - barley there. "Do that."

"Right," Doyle says with a curt nod. "You pay me to drive."

* * *

A/N Go to next chap... 


	2. CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2  
  
"He's not here," she knows this even before his key slips into the lock.

Doyle laughs a little, looking over his shoulder at her. "Then we'll wait," he smiles

As they step inside, she tries to ignore the smell of old mildew and the creeping feel of basement-chill. Bare brick walls and cold, off-white lino are the first things she sees and then the sparse furnishings start to filter in.

Her eyes linger on the beat up, second-hand furniture, and then move to the dented chipped appliances, and reluctantly stop on the matted, shag carpeting with more than a few cigarette burns. She gives Doyle a long, questioning stare; she knows she could've afforded better

"I don't like it," and that's all she can say about the apartment. She quietly sits down on the couch, its cracked upholstery biting into her bare legs. She should've worn something else, but she didn't know where they were going, he hadn't told her. She knew she shouldnt've worn a skirt. She hopes she look okay, she knows that it probably doesn't matter. But still, she hopes he thinks she looks okay.

"What's with the lighter?" Doyle asks. "I've noticed that you don't go anywhere without it."

She presses the pads of her fingers into the metal; she put it down once, only once...

Blood fills her mouth as Spike's lighter is ripped away from her. Cold lips crush against hers and her hands press against a hard chest, trying to get away even though there's nowhere to run to. Buffy won't hear her if she screams, so she just lets it happen; and her struggle becomes nothing but whimpers... the burning pain in her neck doesn't hurt that much anymore, anyway.

Unnaturally blonde hair flashes in her eyes, and she cringes as a familiar sneer hisses in her ears.

"Miss me, pet?"

She blinks, the apartment that had been bright and harsh before, somehow becoming dark, smoky, and as dull as a spoon. The couch jostles as Doyle sits down, one of his lazy smiles already forming on his lips. She knows he's used to the wait, used to lazing and letting things happen - he's used to it, she's not.

"Why don't you put it down?"

She stands; her fingers curling in on Spike's lighter, letting the metal give her some kind of comfort.

"'Cause I lost it once," she says without looking him. "It's not mine to lose."

Standing soon becomes pacing, and then the pacing becomes quiet snooping. Nothing much to go through; and all she finds in the fridge are several styrofoam containers of blood and a half-empty six pack.

She remembers when there used to be handcuffs and things in old trunks and then jewelry hidden away in a battered pine box that he would swear didn't exist. There used to be old books filled with poetry, carefully placed under the dust and rubble of broken crosses. That's the difference between this place and his old home that she remembers - there used to be possessions.

Now, all she finds is a single coffee cup, an old tape player, a few albums, and a dirty ashtray.

"Look in the medicine cabinet yet?" Doyle tilts his head a bit, smiling like he always does when he talks to her.

"He's a vampire," she says simply.

"It was a joke." No matter how she tries, she can't wipe that smile off his face. So, she quit trying.

She shrugs her shoulders and starts pacing again. This is so different, nothing like Sunnydale, or even Rome. It's not bad, it just... different. She's getting used to different.

The couch creaks as Doyle leans forward, a sigh blowing past his lips. "Hungry?" she hears him ask.

She shakes her head. She's never hungry.

"When's the last time you ate something?" he frowns in concern.

She stops pacing and closes her eyes, actually trying to remember.

Teeth in her throat, blood in her mouth... the crack and grate of bones as they're pressed into the pavement.

"Miss me, pet?"

Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she begins to pace again. "It's been a while," she concedes.

"You should eat," Doyle tells her, his frown becoming truer to form.

She ignores the concern in his voice; he's just saying that 'cause if something happens to her, his checks stop coming. That's all it is, it's a business arrangement. Doyle only cares enough to make sure her money ends up in his pocket.

"Later," she tells him. And it's not a lie; she might eat later, if she remembers. She wants to know how he is, how he's doing, if she did the right thing after all. She wants to know, but she wants to ask him; she doesn't want to listen to Doyle say he's a real hero - 'cause, after all, Spike's not your everyday hero.

Walking across the room, she slowly sits down, the mattress springs creaking. She wonders if it's okay, what he'll think, if it's worth the raised eyebrow she's getting from Doyle. But none of that matters, not anymore; all that matters is that they're crossing the last thing off on their list. After tonight it'll be over. So, who cares if Doyle starts making assumptions or if she shouldn't? It doesn't matter. So, she lies down, burying her face in his pillow. It smells of him, at least that's something.

"Yeah," she hears Doyle chuckle, "I figured it was more complicated than that."

"Go to hell," she whispers, letting her tears soak into the stiff cotton of the pillowcase. There's no real heat in her words, but that's the thing, there never is. It's all just words. Just threats. They don't mean anything... except for that one time that it did. It was kinda prophetic in ways she doesn't like to think about - her threat and how he actually died. Fire and fire. It makes lying in his bed painful; it makes the simple inhale and exhale of breathing in his scent torture. It makes her hurt.

"Been there, done that," Doyle quips, putting his hands behind his head and propping his booted feet up on the coffee table.

Another thing about Doyle is that he never shuts up, especially when she wants quiet.

"You love him?"

That was the easy answer. Of course she did, now if she should or not... that one was always a little harder. Harder, and a whole lot more complicated. "He was my best friend," she says, her voice muffled by the pillow. "Now shut up."

"Yes ma'am," he grins, letting his head loll back, like he was pulling an imaginary cowboy hat down to shade his eyes. She hated him, but there were a few things she liked - the hat-thing was one of them.

She remembers when they first met, she'd asked if he was a real cowboy; and if he was, what he was doing messing around with old, musty texts in a demon-bar instead of corralling horses or something normal like that.

He'd kind of smiled and bought her a coke.

It always comes down to waiting, and there's nothing you can do about it. So, she just lies there, gripping the lighter a little tighter. She wonders what Buffy's doing, how the Scoobies are... but she quickly pushes the thoughts away. She can think about them later.

Sleep has been a hard thing to come by, and most of the time she just stares at the ceiling until Doyle shows up to drive her someplace. He says she needs to sleep, that she needs to eat... maybe, if she remembers, she can do it later. It's not a lie. Maybe she won't forget this time.

She's a little surprised when everything starts to blur into a haze and she dozes off. It's not really sleep, but it's warm, and for the first time in more than a week, she shuts her eyes and relaxes. She doesn't mind the noises that used to drive her crazy; the loudness isn't as bad as it used to be. Actually, it's kinda soothing, in a way. She can hear Doyle softly breathing, and she can hear the refrigerator humming low and electrical like all refrigerators do.

She doesn't know how much time passes; she just knows that it does. And when she feels a hand on her shoulder, and hears Doyle's voice whisper that it's time to go, she knows that it must've been a while. She nods, slowly sitting up.

"I'll check a few places," he tells her, his trademark smile already in place. "Let's get you home, huh?"

"Yeah," she nods. "It's just one more night, after so many, it's not that bad."

She doesn't know if she's saying that for his benefit or her own; either way, he gives her a quick hug that's empty and doesn't mean anything.

It's just one more night.

* * *

A/N Go to next chap... 


	3. A SPIKELIKE INTERLUDE

A SPIKE-LIKE INTERLUDE  
  
Too much touchy feely, or lack thereof - that's Spike's verdict. He went and got all emotional and conversed with the great gelled one 'cause of guilt, loneliness, and oh-so lovely painkillers. Speaking of, he has no idea what's being pumped into him, but he's loving it. Higher than a bleedin' kite and seeing double of everything.

Giggling... no, laughing, 'cause he's the big bad and the big bad doesn't giggle. Nope, not giggling; never. Laughing and smiling like a loony, he listens to the nurses walk up and down the hall. Their footfalls echo and do all sorts of crazy somersault-flippy-things inside his ears. A blonde sticks her head in, asking if there's anything he needs...

Spike fights it, but he soon gives up. Sinking down into his bed, he breaks out into laughter and tries to shake his head. The bird gives him an understanding smile before she leaves the vampire to his hazy, drugged word. This is more fun than the time he bit that flower person - there's no frenzied technicolour to screw with his senses - loads more fun.

He's flying, and he can't feel the nerves and bones in his arms knitting back together. Spike tried to go to sleep but the stupid sodding room just wouldn't stop spinning 'round long enough for him to close his eyes. So, he's been awake for about two days, laughing like a mad man at the nurses who've bobbed on by to check on him. Doc says his arms are almost good as new, what with the magic thingamabobs and Celtic knickknacks they were waving around during surgery. The blonde could care less, 'cause he's cruising along on vampire-strength Advil, baby.

Translation: he's pissed, completely and utterly pissed.

* * *

A/N Go to next chap... 


	4. CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 3

It's not her usual hang; even the Bronze never had this many vampires mixing on the dance floor with humans. Buffy had a good say in that, though. She quietly sits down, her eyes flicking over the undulating mass of bodies. The flashing streams of light send a pale green wash around the room, lighting up the sweaty and bloodstained faces.

They're all innocent, in a way; even the vampires. One group doesn't realize that their mere mortals and the other doesn't realize that's it's only a matter of time before they're trod on dust. So, in a way, they're both innocent. It makes everything easier; they won't see her until she's right there, face to face. It's easy 'cause they won't see her.

The humans are so far out of it, what with the music and drugs; they don't even notice that they're slowly being killed with kisses. It sounds more romantic than it really is. In truth, it's terrifying; they don't even know they're slowly being killed. That's how things are anymore, slow. Used to be a time when everything happened in a blink of an eye, where she could just think it and things were better or worse.

Everything happens so slow now - even death.

"Wanna dance?" someone asks.

She turns and there he is, just like she remembers. Platinum curls all eschew, decked out in black that's seen better days, and blue eyes that haunt her nights. It's all like some kind of dream... or nightmare. Before she can say anything, he's got her hand in his and he's leading her into the crowd of dancers.

"I've got things to do," she can hear herself say. He gives her a smile and begins to dance with her. His hands drift down to her hips and he slowly sways them deeper into the crowd. He whispers things - nonsense mainly - as he peppers kisses along her jaw. Everything spins for a moment, and her senses are assaulted by hands moving, cold lips, friction, and the familiar touch of leather. Like always, the spinning slows to an easy twirl, and he's still there holding her. She listens to his voice murmur soft, dreamy things as his lips brush over her ear.

Shivering, she half-catches the lyrics to an old song she doesn't know, and then only the end to a poem that she's sure she could recognize if given the chance. It's always like this, and he never gives her the few precious seconds she needs to understand.

But none of it matters, all that matters is that he's here, dancing with her, really holding her. He stopped holding her when Buffy came back. He stopped being there. Buffy walked down the stairs and... he just stopped.

"Never stopped," he whispers, "Just got sidetracked, Nibblet. Never bloody stopped."

Laying her head on his chest, she breathes in. This is why she did it; this is why Doyle drives her around every night. She did the right thing. God, she's missed him. Her fingers absently toy with one of the buttons to his duster, and he presses a kiss into her hair. He's all hard angles and barbed wire; forever keeping people out, and then keeping those he secretly lets in safe. That's one of the things she remembers and misses most; he made her feel safe.

It's been a long time since she's felt safe.

He's humming something low, something that makes the techno music thrumming around them quietly fade away. One of his hands slowly skims up her back to tangle gently in her hair.

"I missed you," she softly tells him.

"Know that, pet," he says just as softly. "Couldn't leave my girl wanting, could I?"

She shakes her head a bit, burrowing deeper into his embrace. This is how things are supposed to be. No Buffy. No Scoobies. No stupid Sunnydale to save. It's all about them, about the dancing, about being safe.

"There are vampires here," she points out. She looks over his shoulder at the other dancers, silently cataloging them.

"Yeah," he nods, "Fast or slow?"

She pushes away from him, her eyes widening.

Hard blue eyes burning and skinning her down to nothing as she begs, leaving her empty and hollow. It's all about the pain, about seeing how loud she can scream and cry before she's out of blood. He presses his fingers into her shoulders, bruising skin and cracking bone. She lets out a small, pathetic sound and he lets out a soft laugh.

"Gonna do this no matter how you look at it," he grins, "What's it gonna be, baby, fast or slow?"

His teeth are in her neck before she can answer, his hips grinding hard against hers as he sucks at her throat.

Looks like it was going to be slow.

"What do you want?" she tiredly asks, ignoring the few spectators' eyes that linger on them.

He chuckles and tilts his heads to the side, "I want us to be a family."

"Told you, Dru," she says, "Not interested."

"Oh," the woman pouts, letting the mental image of Spike shatter like so much glass. "You want our boy back too," she points out, stepping closer, and smoothing back the younger girl's hair.

"Yeah, I do," she admits. "Only difference is, I know he's not mine."

Dru frowns, "But he could be, Dawn. Let mummy help?"

She looks the vampire in the eyes; she's thinner than she remembers. She's all red velvet and leather - at least that much hasn't changed. Dawn cringes when Dru's cold arms fold her into a hug, and she's rigid when the woman's fingers weave playfully into her hair. The soft musical tones from before return, only it's Dru's frothy voice instead of Spike's smokier one. "I'm working," Dawn says, pulling out of the vampire's arms.

"Always working," Dru grumbles. "Scurry, scurry, scurry; like mice." Her dark eyes flash gold, "Not even hiding... kitty needs to sharpen her claws."

"Fine," Dawn sighs. "Don't hurt the people."

"I'll play nice," Dru promises primly, "For now."

It's different than Rome, slower, and that's okay. Dawn watches Dru go into game face, and she wonders when she'll stop falling into that fantasy. Broken bones and screams in alleys were the truth... only the flashes of blonde were tricks - tricks she still fell for.

Maybe all these nights spent wrapped up in a blanket of fantasy will fade away enough to let the real thing happen. Dawn hopes so; she's getting tired of waiting.

Everything happens so slow.

* * *

A/N Go to last chap... 


	5. CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 4

"Someone raided _'The Spot'_ last night," Doyle says reaching over to turn the radio on. "Not a single vamp left standing."

Dawn shifts in her seat, getting comfortable. "Really?" she asks, her eyes blankly staring out the passenger window.

"Yeah," he nods, "Thought maybe Spike was making the rounds, but I checked up on him and he just got out of intensive care."

He looks at her, expecting a reaction, maybe shock; but she just tiredly smiles. Some things stay the same. She's glad that the blonde's penchant for violence was one of them. Spike wasn't Spike unless he had some sort of wound or bruise to show off to the masses. "He was always getting himself hurt."

"This time he lost his hands," Doyle says bluntly.

"How?" she asks, turning to look him in the eyes.

"Dana," he sighs, "Things didn't go exactly as planned."

Her eyebrows knit together, and her fingers constrict on the lighter, the cold metal digging into her palm. This wasn't part of it. Spike wasn't supposed to get hurt. Not like that. No. He was supposed to be the hero. He was supposed to save people like he'd tried to save her. He was supposed to get the chance to do something really good. He wasn't supposed to get hurt. Doyle had said that it was all in the bag. Send the Slayer of Slayers in for the job, it was a done deal. Done deal. Spike wasn't supposed to hurt. Doyle said he wouldn't get hurt. Doyle had said it was a done deal.

"Where is he?" she asks, and her own ears having to strain to catch the words.

"Home now. We can stop by- -"

"Pull over," she cuts him off, "Pull over, now."

"I can drop you off..." he begins, but she shuts him up with a glare. "Right," he nods, stiffly resigned. "You pay me to drive, gotcha."

"You said he wouldn't get hurt," Dawn says, her voice a little louder, but not by much.

"I didn't think he would." Doyle fiddles with the gearshift, slowing down and pulling onto the shoulder, an apologetic look on his face.

"Next time," she warns, opening the passenger door and stepping out. "Don't think."

The door slams, rattling the truck. She doesn't pay attention when he drives off, and she doesn't really notice the cars whizzing by; their brights shinning, briefly stinging her eyes. She stifles the urge to run. She'll get there in her own time. Everything's slow, so she needs to follow suit. _'Slowly,'_ she tells herself, putting one foot in front other, _'Walk don't run.'_

She doesn't know why she's forcing the stupid slow of the world onto herself; she doesn't know why she doesn't just say _'screw it'_ and run as fast as she can. But she's walking, Spike's lighter somehow becoming colder and less comforting as she holds it.

Last night's nothing but a blur of dust and screams. Dru had helped, in her Dru-like fashion. Tearing heads off nearby vampires and giggling like a little girl at a party. Not a single dark hair out of place or even a tear in her outfit to show for the scattered piles of dust. But she had ambushed a dancer in a corner and managed to take a bite out of the girl before Dawn could pull her off. There had been pouting and pleading, and then angry stomps and shrill screams, but the girl would live.

Between her and Dru they had taken out around thirty-five vampires. In all the insane ramblings, Dawn had caught snippets of praise and then something like a lecture for killing all the beasties and not playing with the pretty, bleeding people. Dru had went on and on about how it was supposed to be the_ 'other way around'_; but then had smiled, and cooed that her baby was off making things scream, so she oughtn't be so fussy.

It had gone by quick and easy; but, still, it was blurry.

Looking up, she realizes that she's standing in front of Spike's door. Five minutes or five hours, she doesn't know; but she knows she walked. No running. Like Dru said, there wasn't anywhere to run. She can hear him on the other side of the door. His voice loudly cursing as he throws something against the wall. She guesses his hands are okay, common sense points out that you need hands to throw things.

Dawn raises her hand to knock, but doesn't follow through. Instead, she lets her hand fall to her side and sighs heavily, resting her crown against the chilled door. Why is it so hard? Slow and hard, that's how every little task is anymore. She wishes things could be fast and simple again. She wishes she didn't have the quiet of her thoughts to get lost in. She wishes she wasn't left dissecting every memory - finding instances that she could've changed with different words, different actions.

She's tired of re-thinking everything.

The cursing stops and everything inside the apartment goes silent. She blows a few stray hairs out of her face, holding his lighter uncomfortably tight. There are slow footfalls, the sound of a hand skimming the surface of the door on the other side, and a she listens as he lets out a deep unneeded breath. He can sense her, just like she can sense him. It's... wiggy.

"Andrew lied," she softly says. "It was safer that way."

She hears him let out a sharp sound, like an exhale, or a gasp.

"There never was a school," Dawn gives a wry smile. "I was in Rome, though."

The locks sound loud and harsh as they click, and the doorknob shakes back and forth as it's slowly turned. She backs up, watching the door silently being pulled open. Time's changed him too. It's made him accept the slowness. That, or maybe she's just too fast... maybe there's nothing wrong with the world...

Maybe there's something wrong with her.

She tilts her head up a bit, meeting his too-blue eyes head on. He isn't exactly like she remembers, close, but not exactly. He's a little rougher around the edges and there are fading circles under his eyes. Everything else is the same though; black shirt, black jeans, belt, bare feet... Dawn can't help but smile.

He looks confused, his head cocking to the side and his lips pursed like he's trying to figure out a riddle. He reaches out, cupping her cheek. "When?" he asks. Shock is the first thing she feels. She had expected him to be mad, to be disappointed in her, something other than this sad-face that she was getting.

Dropping her gaze, Dawn shrugs awkwardly. "Dunno, a week or so after Sunnydale."

"Who?" Spike asks just as gently. She hates how nice and understanding he's being; he's supposed to be angry or ranting and raving- -something.

"Dru," she says. Yeah, but she looked like him. She sounded like him. She smelt like him. Felt like him. She had thought that Dru was Spike. Dawn doesn't know why she feels so ashamed or why she wants to hide... hide from the way he's looking at her - into her. She never felt this way before, never ashamed, not even after the fact.

"Nibblet, there's something..." trailing off, he gives her a puzzled half-grin. "Soul?" he asks.

She shakes her head, "Never had one," she quirks a smile that looks plastic and dingy. "Key-thing," Dawn explains, "Inherently good."

"Oh." Spike pulls his hand away, nervously rocking back in his heels. All of a sudden looking everywhere but her, his hands disappear behind his back, his thumbs hooking into his back pockets. "Well, s'more of a basement than I'd like," he moves back, jerking his head, vaguely gesturing to the inside of his apartment. "But... you wanna come in?"

"Sure," she nods.

"Was playing Donkey Kong 'fore you showed..." He gives the broken controller a sheepish glance, "Wanna play? We can take turns."

Dawn smiles and starts laughing, really laughing. It's been so long since she's been given a reason to.

'Yeah,' she thinks, sitting down on the couch, _'This is a lot better than fantasy dances.'_

* * *

END

A/N Wow. I finally finished something. And yes, if you guessed at the subtexty goodness, Dawn is a vampire, and, yes, Dru sired her. I might do more with this in the future. I hope you liked the ride. 


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